Floating
by Swamp-Eyes
Summary: [Post FURY ROAD] Max Rockatanski is back – he's standing there, in the middle of what once was Immortan Joe's secret chamber, his boots just inches away from the stone water-filled tub. [Max Furiosa]


**.-°-..-°-.**

 **.-°-..-°-.** **Floating** **.-°-..-°-.**

 _Running, returning_  
 _On and on it goes_

 _And I am away_  
 _To where I've always been_

(Akron Family)

 **.-°-..-°-.**

* * *

Max Rockatanski is back – he's standing there, in the middle of what once was Immortan Joe's secret chamber, his boots just inches away from the stone water-filled tub.

 _OUR BABIES WILL NOT BE WARLORDS_

Usually it's those white bold letters Furiosa sees first. They are the thing that stands out the most, in that room – the first thing her eyes fall upon, the first thing she notices, the first thing that affects her, giving her the chills.

 _Not this time, though._

This time she has set her eyes upon him first, unmistakably – and after being briefly captured by that famous indelible sentence, it's upon him they helplessly return.

She sees him standing there, and she doesn't really know how she feels. A part of her finds it completely natural, as if this was supposed to happen from the very beginning, no wonder, no surprise. A part of her is completely bewildered and stunned. Trying to count the days that have passed since that moment she has seen him walking away and disappearing among the crowd – while she was getting higher, and higher, and higher – is mind blowing.

Furiosa parts her lips, but she says nothing.

Max, on the other hand, doesn't even seem to acknowledge her presence.

He is completely still, his dark clothes grown paler and covered in sand dust, randomly torn and stained with black oil, his hair messier and longer than she remembered – he probably never bothered to cut it.

 _Is he wounded? Is he just tired?_

She has no idea how he has made it to this chamber. She has just heard the break-in report – now that she knows it's _him_ , she feels relieved rather than afraid.

That is, until she sees him falling on his knees, hovering his hand on the stone tub surface, the greenish water so stall it seems almost a glass plate – and the moment after he collapses face-down into it. There is a suffocated splash, and the surface is suddenly not still anymore, but rippling and reflecting spots of sunshine coming from the window.

Furiosa knows that she is not needed, that he is going to wake up by himself, that he is surely not going to drawn in such a stupid way – she knows, yet she can't help.

She feels a tug in the corner of her lips, but she feels her heart skip one beat too.

She reaches him in a few dashing steps, her own boots resounding on the cave stone; the moment after, she's kneeling on the tub border, trying to get a hold of him – or rather, of the mess of robes and garments and weapons that covers him – and turn him around. But his clothes are soaked and those garments damn heavy.

"Max."

The moment she says it, it sounds hell strange, but she also remembers why: she has never called him like that.

"Max." The name escapes from her lips again.

Suddenly, there's something overwhelming her, urging her towards him. Saying it one time felt not enough - now being just on the border of the pool feels not enough. She steps into the stone tub – the water filling it is neither cold nor hot, it just feels like a welcoming neutral liquid while it soaks her clothes too.

There's a short mess of clothes and arms and metal and gasps when Furiosa finally manages to get his head out of the water. The sand caked on the fabric of his robes gradually melts into fine mud floating in the pool – but there's not just the sand. There must be blood somewhere, too, because she sees transparent pink trails whirling into the water.

He's awake now, and without knowing why they're almost fighting – his rough strong fingers clenching around her throat while he struggles to adjust himself into the pool, her metal arm trying to sustain him while her sane hand is spat on his face, between his invisible hairline and his eye, to touch him but to keep him away at the same time.

Still, she's not afraid. She's just hell sad because now she remembers that, too, reading his blue eye peering from behind the sand coloured wet locks plastered on his forehead.

 _He lives in a nightmare, even when he's awake._

She doesn't know what's her purpose when she pulls him towards her, holding her breath, biting her lip –their noses are almost touching, there are just inches separating their eyes. It feels terribly déjà vu – revolting forgotten old images give her nausea: black spots obscuring her sight, his blood running in a small transparent tube, from his veins to her veins.

 _Max. My name is Max - that's my name._

"Max," another light shake, a nervous laugh – and again his face into hers, his nose on her cheek – eyes in eyes. "It's _me_ , fool."

Then he sees her, and she knows he's seeing her. He's finally awake – literally awake, not lost in one of his hell nightmares. Just awake. Just _there_ , soaked into a palace stone tub, with her.

Everything changes in a split second – they don't take their hands off each others, but it's different. His hand moves from her neck to her nape, her hand trails on his forehead, his hair sliding under her fingers.

"Hey." He has a terribly husky voice, as if water has not touched his throat for months – but there's a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Hey," she spats back - and she cannot help but think he's mad, he's so completely mad.

Max tries to move, he removes his hand from her neck – so she removes hers from his hair, looking at her now blood stained fingers – but he somewhat collapse on her anyway. To Furiosa it's not clear what he's trying to do – exit the tub, sit down, turn around, hug her, shove her away, drink? She wants to sustain him, but she wants to keep a reasonable distance too.

In the end, he surrenders with a suffering snort, laying on the border sunken stair, his back on the big stone tiles, the water reaching half his chest, his head collapsing backwards. Her metal elbow is laying on the same stair, her sane hand is resting on his abdomen – but she just let it linger there for a short while, until she focuses on those blood pink trails again.

She kneels in front of him, half her chest still into the water too, a questioning look – she gets nothing in response if not a half exhausted smirk.

"Are you wounded?" she asks directly.

He shrugs, as if to say, _nothing serious_. But he doesn't say it, even if she wants to hear it.

So, a bit nervous, she removes one of his protections, sending the garment to sink into the pool, and the black torn fabric to float around them like a seaweed.

He shakes his head slowly, but he doesn't actually stop her.

"'s nothing serious," he finally says it out loud, though.

Furiosa believes it only once he sees herself – the wound cutting the perfect bicep of his upper arm is dirty, neglected, but nothing that can kill him - not even close.

"I'll get care of that," he promises – but he rests his head on the border of the pool, and closes his eyes, "..later."

She doesn't feel like contradicting him – and now that he cannot see, she indulges into a smile. She removes her scarf – the one she uses to cover her face from the sudden sandstorms - and she dips it into the water. When she gets it out of the pool, it's dripping, and the droplets trickling from it fill the silence of the chamber.

She delicately wipes his forehead with it, in the same place she has stained her own fingers – she knows delicacy is not needed, because like so many other times, the blood on his skin is not his own, so there's no way that's going to hurt him – not physically, at least.

He doesn't fight back.

"How did you get that wound?" she asks, eyeing his bicep. She doesn't know if she wants a real answer, or if she's just interested in hearing his voice again. "What happened to you these months?"

There are several moments of silence. There are the droplets from her soaking scarf, his relaxed breathing, and further, out of the room, the sound of the water being vaporized on the lush green crops.

"..you know," he answers. And that's the end of the story.

Furiosa lets her fingers trail on the spot of his forehead she has just cleaned from whomever blood. She doesn't know. But that's okay that way.

* * *

 **AN**

Yes I am late, yes this is clichè, so sue me ;) Or maybe you could just drop a line and tell me if you liked this, feedback is so much appreciated! I am so unsure about my MM stories, I'm afraid I'm messing with the characters. So please a word of encouragement? ;) What else can I say, I'm love with Fury Road.

 **S.**


End file.
